


Blame the Bubbles

by pocketwitch



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-14
Updated: 2006-01-14
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketwitch/pseuds/pocketwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for <a href="http://bubbleficathon.livejournal.com/">bubbleficathon</a>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Blame the Bubbles

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [bubbleficathon](http://bubbleficathon.livejournal.com/).

To this day he blamed the bubbles.

He hadn’t ever been much of a prankster, never one to break too many rules when it could be helped. A good laugh was just fine, of course, but getting himself into trouble was far too much of a risk to make many antics worthwhile. Punishment, for him, could mean time away from practice; time away from the team; time away from the _game_. This was more than enough of a deterrent to keep him, for the most part, a rule-abiding Hogwarts student.

With one notable exception.

It wasn’t something he considered a prank, or an antic; more of … a necessity. It started off a bit less innocently, when a particular Hufflepuff girl, who just happened to be a bit fond of him, and as well just happened to be a prefect, gave him the password to the prefects’ bathroom in hopes of a rendezvous. The rendezvous itself had been little short of a catastrophe, but at least some good had come of it.

Quidditch was a rough job, and the unending passion for winning was a rough obsession to carry from day to day. A fellow needed to relax once in a while. He was often criticized – or fussed over, depending, usually, on the gender of the critic –for being far too prone to anxiety. It was true, of course, and he knew it as well as anyone. Was there a cure? Would he have wanted one if there were?

No, this wasn’t a prank, or an antic. This was sanity. It wasn’t something he risked often, but from time to time it was well worth it. A long, hot soak in a pool of thick bubbles was as much of an antidote as he could allow himself. It was hardly a crime, and he imagined that if he ever did get caught that the resulting punishment wouldn’t be too drastically severe, especially given some of the more dire goings on around the school of late. While getting caught would most definitely require him to break this particular habit, he doubted it would mean much more than a detention and a not-so-stern talking-to from Dumbledore.

Given that he had no real fear associated with getting caught – a preference that it not happen, of course, but no true reason to be afraid – it became almost like a strategy game, one he could play on his own, and turn over in his mind when he was too drained to think of Quidditch but too keyed up to stop his mind from moving.

He didn’t venture out at night, late, after the other students had gone to bed – no, that sort of timing would be asking for trouble. At midnight the likelihood of running into a professor – either prowling the halls in search of students out of bed, or simply going about their own lives (as he imagined they probably had, whether or not they allowed them to show) – was high. And, of course, there was Filch, always gleeful at the prospect of catching a student somewhere they weren’t supposed to be.

The trick was to go early. Before the crack of dawn, before anyone rose. Even Filch had to go to sleep eventually, and wasn’t likely to be up at such an unlikely time for trouble. And even if he did get caught in the corridors? As far as he was aware, there was no rule that students couldn’t get an early start on the day. He always carried just enough Quidditch equipment so as to appear viable should he need to convince someone of his innocent intent to get in a bit of practice before classes.

Only once did he ever encounter an obstacle.

It started off like any other excursion; he made certain no one was anywhere near before he entered the bathroom - this was the riskiest part, of course, because it would be terribly difficult to tell if someone was already occupying the bath, but thus far he had been lucky. Once inside, he walked around the pool to stand behind one of the large, marble columns that held several taps. He always left his clothes and equipment here, in hopes that, if he heard anyone else coming in, he could run back and hide without leaving the tell-tale sign of his cast off robes and trousers strewn all over. He knew that, should that ever happen, it would probably be the end of his bathroom adventures, but it never hurt to take precautions.

This particular morning he was grateful of such habits. Not a moment had passed after he had set his things down behind the column when he heard the door open, followed by the shuffle of someone entering, and the thump as they unselfconsciously dropped their things, clearly confident of their right to be here.

He remained as still as possible, not even venturing to stand up fully from the awkward, crouched position he was in until he heard the water running, enough noise to mask any small creaks that standing and turning might make.

He tried, for a few moments, to be gentlemanly, telling himself that he would simply stay where he was, perhaps sit down on the floor and face the back wall, unmoving, until whoever was out there was through. It wasn’t long before curiosity got the better of him, though, and, resolving to avert his eyes right away if he caught sight of anything he shouldn’t, he peeked ever-so-slightly around the column.

A flash of pale skin and red hair told him right away who he was sharing the room with. The running water had covered the sounds of movement; Percy had already undressed and gotten into the tub.

Percy. He sighed. Of course it would have been far worse had it been a Slytherin prefect, but still, Percy was just as likely as a Slytherin to turn him in, he would just be a bit less of a git about it. He didn’t _dislike_ Percy at all – hadn’t ever really talked to him much, honestly – but there were plenty of other prefects that he would have preferred to see. If Percy caught sight of him, he doubted he would be able to charm his way out of trouble. Percy took his job far too seriously.

Even now, in the bath, he had that look. _That look_. The serious one. Brow furrowed as if working out some perplexing logarithm in his head. Even the hot water couldn’t ease the tight lines of his muscles.

Until the bubbles.

Oliver was just about to pull himself back behind the column all the way, settle in and wait, when he saw Percy moving toward a set of taps on the opposite side of the pool, and curiosity got the better of him. Percy didn’t seem like the bubble type; somehow he seemed too … dignified, maybe … for bubbles. He moved toward the taps purposefully, though, reaching for one specific spout and turning it on. Thick, dense white bubbles poured out, quickly covering the surface of the water. Percy waited until the pool was nearly filled with them before closing the tap.

And that was when he changed. That was when he leaned back against the wall of the tub and became another person.

Oliver felt his eyes widen as he saw something he didn’t remember ever seeing before. He saw Percy relax. And in that moment, he knew. Percy was here for the same reason he was here. Different drives, yes, and very different methods of pursuing them … but there was no denying that they both held their tensions close.

He looked at Percy and he saw someone he wondered if anyone else had ever seen. He looked at Percy and he could swear he saw himself.

Somehow the morning passed without incident; though he had been certain that his game was up, Percy finished his bath and left without ever realizing that he wasn’t alone, and Oliver was free to have his own bath. For the first time, he chose to favor the thick, dense white bubbles.

It was years until Oliver told Percy about what had happened that day. It wasn’t until well after Hogwarts – well after the war, even – that they even became what could be called friends, at Oliver’s something-resembling-subtle instigation. It was well after that that they spent an evening consuming enough firewhiskey to prompt the telling of such tales.

As for everything that happened after that … it was, Oliver never once doubted, all the fault of the bubbles.


End file.
